Ûrzudel
by EverydayClumsy
Summary: Thorin wakes up after The Battle of Five Armies. Not everyone survived the battle. (Hint: Bilbo dies)


AN:

Posted this first on ao3.

So yeah, I'm still alive, and even somewhat well. I haven't posted in ages and am kinda sorry for that but every time I have inspiration it dies in the same hour, so nothing really comes of it.

I'm at work right now and brought along my old notes on some stories I wanted to write (in a notebook, written in pencil, how very retro of me) and the notes to this one seemed to strike something, so here it is.

I'm not even gonna attempt to promise to write more, this gonna be it for a while again I think.

Ps: Ûrzudel supposed to mean, Sun of Suns in Khuzdul, no idea if it's true but I'm just gonna go with it. Also if you squint you can read this as Thilbo, I ain't gonna be mad if you do.

* * *

The King under The Mountain only slowly regained consciousness.

Everything seemed quiet, too quiet for the battlefield he was in. A murmur of voices pulled him further out of unconsciousness. An herbal scent was in the air; he took a deep breath and almost passed out again. Agony spread through his chest. He ground his teeth together hard, the pain lessened after a while, but a dull ache still stayed with him. Tanking shallow breath, he pried his eyes open, for a moment everything was only bright. He blinked for a few times and was surprised to see the cloth canopy of a medical tent over him. Thorin let his eyes roam sluggishly through the tent and over what he could see outside through the slightly open tent flaps.

He wasn't alone in the tent. Next to him lay his sister sons, his boys. He thanked the Valar that he could see their chests still rising. Only with difficulty moving his eyes away from them he looked through the open tent flaps; he could see Elves, Dwarrows and Men working together. He took it all in with a certain detachment; pain was still clouding his mind.

A tall gray-clad figure was making his way to his tent.

"Hail Thorin, King under The Mountain –" he spoke softly, his tall frame seemingly folding in on itself as he sat on the chair next to Throins bed "It's good to see you awake again."

"Tharkûn, the company…" a whisper, not loud enough to be heard but was understood by the Wizard nonetheless.

Gandalf apprized the King with a keen eye, noting the shallow breathing and slightly unfocused gaze but there was a pleading expression on his face. Nodding to himself he began to speak "Fíli and Kíli are alive but both are still unconscious –" he let his eyes wander to the two brothers, much too young to be part of such a grizzly battle "but they will live, they will need a lot of time to recover –" he smiled down at the wounded King "but they will live."

Thorin let out a slow relived breath, his boys would live. They would get the chance to see their home prosper once again, they would get the chance to see peace.

"Balin and Dwalin –" he smiled slightly, it seemed that nothing would ever beat those two brother down "got some slashes, some broken bones but they are fine. Why Balin is already up and organizing the dwarrows. Dori, Nori and Ori are banged up as well, but are helping him anywhere where they can."

Even through the pain the King had to grin, that was his old friend, he could never take a break when he thought there were things to be done. The family Ri was a surprise to him, he wasn't sure in the beginning if he should trust them but now they were as dear to him as the rest of his family. Even the ever evasive Nori, - he would make a good spymaster – Thorin thought to himself.

"And the rest?" He encouraged in a whisper.

Gandalf looked pensive for a moment "Óin and Bifur are not well." He finally spoke "Their families are holding vigil, it is not clear if they will live onto the next day."

Thorin turned his head away. They were his family, his shield brothers; he would not want to bear it for them to die when they finally had their home back. The Wizard placed a hand on his arm "Valar willing they will live, my friend. We can be thankful that Glóin, Bofur and Bombur are relatively well." Gandalf tried to reassure the King.

Thorin turned his eyes back up at the Istar "And the Hobbit?"

Gandalf's face closed off, he peered deep into the Kings blue eyes. There were so many emotions in the eyes of The King under The Mountain when Gandalf gazed into them. The foremost ones were regret and sorrow and his posture wilted "Not accounted for."

"What?" chocked out Thorin "But I know I saw him on the battlefield." His eyes were big and questioning.

"Not all wounded and dead have been recovered yet." He whispered, and a deafening silence filled the tent.

Only a soft and grief-stricken "No!" broke it.

Two days after he first woke up Thorin was absolutely determined to go out with the recovery parties. A mule would've been less stubborn than The King under The Mountain; but he couldn't do nothing while his friend lay out there wounded. So under the firm eyes of his healer he dressed and walked out of his tent, with a firm admonishment to be only out for a short time and not to stress his body too much.

Amidst the shouts of "Hail King Thorin!" and "Hail King under The Mountain!" he made his way to the search parties.

A week after he started joining search parties, the hope to find the living had long ago died in the other soldiers but Thorin still hoped.

It was nearing the end of the day; they were looking through the cadavers of the orcs, when he saw a blue material he could never forget. With an urgent shout, he called over the rest of the party members and they began to move the orcs.

After the dead orcs were moved, he saw him lying there. His gold blond hair caked with dirt; his garments torn and filthy. However, the foulest thing about the whole picture, the one thing that brought the King under The Mountain to his knees, was the deathly white pallor of the Hobbits skin. He was still, his chest did not rise or fall and his eyelids did not flutter. The only movement was the slight ruffling of his muddy hair in the wind.

With a trembling hand Thorin reached for Bilbo, he couldn't give up hope. Bilbo couldn't have been torn from this world without knowing that the Dwarrows have forgiven him, that his family has forgiven him. That they are proud of what he did. He was their Ûrzudel and he was trying to shine his light onto them, when they needed it the most; they just couldn't see it then, but they saw it now. But all his hope was for nothing, his hand was only met with the empty, frozen shell that was once their bright and bubbly burglar. His legs couldn't holding him anymore and he sank grief-stricken to his knees.

They brought him into the mountain and laid him upon furs to clean him. He was their hero, one small Hobbit who wanted only the best for them.

Balin and Dorin as the weavers and tailors of their Company made him new garments. A mix of Hobbit and Dwarrow, so he could rest forever comfortably. The warriors of their Company took turns in caring for 'Sting', etching praise for the Hobbit into the blade. Fíli and Kíli took the honor of etching the name of the sword into it. Ori filled pages upon pages with stories of their Hobbit to lay next to him, for his final resting place. He would write them again and again so that they will never be forgotten.

But the last washing, that fell to the King.

He disrobed the still figure and cleaned him thoroughly again. There were many scars upon his body; he would bet most of them came from the journey. Dark thread held flesh together that would never knit on its own gain. He went through all Dwarrow blessing he knew when washing him and robbing him again. Bilbo would never know it, but he would now and forever be considered a Dwarf.

He paused when it came to his hair, taking in one last time all those familiar features of his pale face. Then he began; he wove the Durin braids into his golden hair, a friend, a shield brother, a nephew, a brother and he wove them all into his hair.

His family, his Ûrzudel.

The whole Company stood around the tomb as Bilbo was lowered in.

"Loyalty, honor and a willing heart… I asked no more than that, and you brought it all, my friend. Hurun Ûrzudel ." Thorin spoke quietly.

He kissed his brow and laid the Arkenstone upon his chest; his tears shimmered like pearls on the stone.

The only light in the deep dark tombs of the Lonely Mountain; and it shall always belong to the child of the West, who so willingly went into death to save the ones he loved the most.

* * *

AN: "Hurun Ûrzudel." - "Rest, Sun of Suns."


End file.
